


A Red Herring and a Fine Mug of Fish

by NamelesslyNightlock, whimsicalwombat



Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: Aram Mojtabai is good with tech, Bad Coffee, Betrayal, But not with plans, Donald Ressler deserves a break, Gen, Harold Cooper is so done, Heist fic, Humor, Inspired by Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV), Reddington is a criminal mastermind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 19:44:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15647688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NamelesslyNightlock/pseuds/NamelesslyNightlock, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicalwombat/pseuds/whimsicalwombat
Summary: Red wants something from Cooper. Cooper wants something from Red. Neither man wants to give in, and as per usual, it all descends into chaos from there.aka: a story of a mug, a bet, and a taskforce of seriously oversized egos.





	A Red Herring and a Fine Mug of Fish

**Author's Note:**

> it was about time that one of our nonsense conversations turned into something a little more substantial

 

Looking back on things, Liz would struggle to pinpoint the exact moment that everything descended into chaos, but she would be fairly certain that it began with a called out bluff and a couple of oversized egos. The name of the Blacklister and why Red thought that they were noteworthy was irrelevant in the grand scheme of things – or, more accurately, in the smaller, safer environment of the Post Office on that slow afternoon – because for once, the why wasn’t important. Reddington’s plan to catch the guy involved a high-risk heist that Director Cooper wasn’t willing to sanction, and the back-and-forth seemed to be testing the limits of his oft-overexerted patience.

“You couldn’t even steal my favourite coffee mug,” Cooper had eventually taunted. Had he been the sort of man prone to such uncouth expressions, Liz thought he might have been rolling his eyes.

“Oh, you think so?” Reddington’s eyes were gleaming with that same spark that usually resulted in deadly car chases and lunch dates with members of the Russian mob, and Liz _considered_ warning Cooper about the hornet’s nest he was in the process of poking with a stick. Maybe she would have, but the afternoon really _had_ been slow. She exchanged an amused glance with Samar, who had also noted the direction of the conversation. If nothing else, it would at least brighten up the day of paperwork they had been forced to endure thus far.

“Don’t play this game with me,” Cooper warned. “I won’t be tricked by it.”

Red let out a short laugh. “Who said anything about a game?” he asked, his expression lighting up like a college student who’d been told that the freezer was broken and all the icecream needed to be eaten stat.“I’d take you up on your bet. If I can prove my ability to plan a heist by stealing your favourite mug, you sanction this operation just as you have with the other Blacklisters. If I fail, I let it go and we move on to the next criminal associate I unceremoniously choose to throw under the bus.”

Cooper’s shrewd eyes narrowed, clearly searching for evidence of a hidden agenda. But Reddington’s smirk remained as constant as ever, and Liz knew him well enough to recognise that he probably wasn’t lying. He wasn’t being entirely _honest_ , of course, but that was a whole other kettle of fish. In this, she thought that Cooper was probably safe.

Probably.

“Come now, Harold,” said Red, his tone overly cheerful. “What have you got to lose?”

Aram, not quite managing to hide the fact that he was eavesdropping as well as the rest of the team, snorted in amusement, and Cooper looked over with a frown.

“Sorry, Sir,” said Aram, sitting up straight and clearing his throat nervously, never one to try and hide after being caught yet unable to act unashamed nonetheless. “I was just thinking that Mr Reddington is correct.”

Samar was looking down at her desk, her brow furrowed in a level of concentration that Liz _knew_ was too much for the reordering of case files she’d been doing all day, and the tight set to her jaw was more that of a person trying not to laugh than anything else.

“Why would you say that?” Cooper asked, and Liz found herself concerned to hear honest curiosity in his tone.

Aram’s eyes widened as he was put on the spot. “Uhm, well,” he started. “I just. This Blacklister _does_ look bad, and we should probably—”

“I’m not going to risk the safety of the team when there’s no chance of the operation succeeding,” Cooper interrupted, turning back to Red.

“So you are not even willing let me try?” Red asked, raising his eyebrows and turning his hat around in his hands as if he were hesitant, though Liz knew him to be anything but. She could see through the act with ease – for with Red, it was always an act, always a show of bravado with the whole world as his stage. It was how Red functioned and it was a process that always worked, but she hadn’t expected Cooper to fall for it.

But of course, this was before she began to factor in the egos as a probable cause for the pandemonium that followed.

“You’d never manage it,” Cooper said, his eyes narrowing. “I keep that mug in my office, which I lock when I’m not inside.”

“Oh, please,” Red laughed. “Do you think a simple lock could keep me out?”

“If it does,” Cooper replied firmly, “you’ll not only leave this Blacklister alone but you’ll give up the names of another _three_ criminals which would give you no personal benefit.”  

Red’s lips quirked. “How could you be sure there would be no benefit for me?” he asked. “It’s not something that’s simple to measure—”

“Your answer?” Cooper asserted.

“Harold,” Red drawled, his voice bright but deadly, a rattlesnake hiding amongst a bed of flowers. “Are you honestly agreeing to this?”

The team were not even bothering to hide the fact that they were listening now – the conversation _was_ happening in the middle of the War Room, to be fair, right when Liz and Ressler were both downstairs to compare notes with the others on a recent case – and they were all watching with bated breath. Only Ressler appeared unamused, his blue eyes trained intently on Cooper like he couldn’t quite believe that anything so outlandish could come to pass.

But then Cooper straightened his shoulders, clenched his jaw, and thrust out his open hand.

To his credit, Reddington looked surprised only for a moment before his lips stretched into a grin and his palm slapped against Cooper’s, the two shaking hands solidly for only a second before their arms fell to their sides once again.

Somehow, the juncture felt momentous, even though Liz knew that it was just a silly bet between two men far too stubborn to stand down. Yet she couldn’t help but feel like the image of Cooper and Reddington shaking hands in the middle of the War Room would be burnt into her mind for a long time to come.

The sensation was so jarring that she almost missed Red’s jovial suggestion of starting in twenty minutes time and ending when the clock hit exactly six– the time that they were all due to head home at the end of the day.

But Cooper’s voice was loud and strict, and impossible to ignore as he stalked further into the middle of the room, demanding their attention.

“You heard what he said,” Cooper said briskly, his piercing gaze turning to each of them in turn. “I’m going to head to my office immediately to lock the mug away– it is _imperative_ that Reddington does not get his hands on my mug.”

Liz pressed her lips together tightly and looked away, too afraid that she’d let a giggle slip to keep her gaze on Cooper’s stern expression.

As she did so, she noticed that Ressler was listening avidly, a crease on his brow revealing his worry. No doubt he was concerned– Liz knew that he didn’t mind placing himself on the line for the good of the country, but she also knew that he _despised_ being at the behest of Raymond Reddington, the criminal that he had spent so many years of his life trying to put behind bars.

“The operation that Reddington has suggested would be near impossible for the most skilled and experienced of covert operatives to undertake– but this is not just about your safety,” Cooper continued, though Liz could tell it pained him to do so. She knew that Cooper cared for them all deeply, that he disliked sending them into unnecessary danger, but he knew that they hardly needed any encouragement to do so. But, with a little reminder of what _else_ they might lose… “This is about the dignity of our operation,” Cooper said, and Liz smirked for being correct. “If we allow a criminal to beat us, then how can we call ourselves FBI agents? How can we stand before our peers with pride?”

“Don’t worry, Sir,” said Ressler. “He’s not getting within three yards of that mug.”

“See that it’s true, Agent Ressler,” said Cooper, the corners of his expression pinching like he wasn’t entirely sure whether or not he could trust them. “I’m going to be in my office.”

It was almost comical, the way that their eyes tracked his movement up the stairs and around the corner, unmoving and so utterly silent that they all heard the door _click_ shut.

“Right,” said Ressler, the first to make a move as he pushed away from where he had been leaning on Aram’s desk, straightening with purpose. “You heard him. We can’t let Reddington get that mug.”

“Bet that’s a sentence you never thought you’d say,” said Aram, flashing a grin which faded as Ressler pinned him with a stare.

“This is serious,” Ressler told him.

“We all know that,” Liz assured him. “We’re not going to let Red get within ten yards of Cooper’s office.”

Samar nodded her agreement, and Ressler deflated.

“I’m going to go back to my office and see how things are looking,” he told them all. “Reddington said that he would start in twenty minutes—”

“That’s twelve, now,” Aram cut in.

“—but that doesn’t mean we can’t prepare,” Ressler finished, ignoring the interruption as he began to make his way across to his own office. “You should all do the same.

With only the three of them left in the War Room – and since she was sitting at a spare chair at Samar’s desk – it was impossible for Liz to miss Samar swiveling in her chair and shifting closer to Aram in a manner far too casual to be but anything else.

“Hey,” Aram said, glancing up with that soft smile that he seemed incapable of keeping from tugging at his lips whenever he looked at Samar. Liz rolled her eyes fondly and glanced back up at Cooper’s shuttered window, her mind whirring.

She agreed with Ressler, to be honest, though she was sure that their motivations differed greatly. Though she found the whole idea rather stale, she couldn’t stomach the idea of Reddington getting one over the team and winning this bet.

Reddington wasn’t one to say _I told you so_ or to lord a victory over anyone quite so explicitly, Liz knew without a doubt that he would twist his words through pretty elucations that would mean just the same, only with a chuckle and a lighthearted dash of condescension.

“You know, I was thinking,” Samar started, her quiet voice cutting through Liz’s musings, though she wasn’t taking any true notice. “Stealing Cooper’s mug sounds like a lot more fun than protecting it.”

 _That_ caught her attention, though she retained enough sense not to stick her neck up with the speed of a meerkat who had slept in late. She kept her gaze firmly on the stairs, though she didn’t see them– her focus was firmly set on the pair of schemers below.

“You want to help Mr Reddington instead?” Aram asked, his voice laced with that special brand of incredulousness which indicated that he couldn’t decide whether Samar was being serious or not.

“No,” Samar snorted. “But Cooper’s logic is that Reddington’s heist is too hard for us—”

 _“_ Uh, I think it’s more that he thinks it’s _dangerous—”_

“Aram, I was trained by Mossad,” Samar replied, quite clearly unimpressed. “I’ve survived worse than a simple heist. Instead of helping Reddington beat us, or proving Cooper right in saying that we can’t pull it off, don’t you think we should prove them _both_ wrong?” From the corner of Liz’s eye, she saw Samar lean in even closer to Aram, a smirk curling the corners of her lips. “We’re not just any FBI agents,” Samar finished. “We can steal that mug.”

“What do you have in mind?” Aram asked. He sounded honestly curious, now.

Unfortunately, Samar took that opportunity to surreptitiously usher Aram out of earshot, and Liz didn’t bother trying to follow them. She knew that Samar would no doubt notice, and that since Samar and Aram were effectively going against Cooper’s orders, neither of them would take too kindly to being tailed.

Still, though.

Liz couldn’t help but think that Samar had a point.

*          *          *

Convincing Aram to join her was as difficult as Samar had expected it to be– that is to say that it wasn’t difficult in the slightest. Aram generally felt nervous when it came to disputing authority but he was always willing to do so when the cause was just (and so long as no one was going to get hurt), and Samar’s argument that stealing the mug for themselves would still keep it away from Reddington and yet still show Cooper that he was wrong to belittle their capabilities worked like a charm.

They’d decided upon their plan in the hallway, away from Liz who wasn’t quite so subtle as she clearly thought she was. Aram had agreed quickly, and with a final, agreeing nod they both headed back to enact the first step.

Sliding into the now empty War Room, Samar rolled her eyes as Aram struggled to keep down the grin that was threatening to engulf his trying-to-be-blank expression. Honestly, he wasn’t built for covert ops– but he was one hell of a hacker, and _that_ was what Samar needed.

As Aram got to work, Samar felt a familiar buzz against her thigh. Frowning, she pulled her phone from her pocket, struggling to think who might be texting her. She hadn’t been expecting anything.

When she caught the name of the sender, her lip curled in contempt. She didn’t know why she was surprised, yet she found herself staring down at the screen, unimpressed. Did he– did he really think that she would choose his side on this? Against not only her own team, but her _principles?_

Of course, Reddington had no way of knowing what she had decided, and he didn’t know her very well– but he was supposed to be a criminal mastermind. Surely he knew her better than _that_.

In that moment she would have taken greater joy from nothing but a snarky reply and eloquent shut down, but she forced herself to pause. This presented an opportunity that could become too useful to squander, and if she could turn it to her own advantage…

‘ _Sure_ ,’ she typed out. ‘ _I’ll be waiting. Let me know what you want me to do._ ’

“Who was that?” Aram asked, leaning over to try and take a peek at the screen.

Samar locked the device and slid it smoothly into her jacket pocket. “Just a friend,” she told him, raising a wry eyebrow. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

The bright red flush that coloured Aram’s cheeks was equal parts amusing as it was endearing. “No,” he denied, glancing away. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s all right,” Samar replied quickly, not wanting to have to comfort him over her own lie. She frowned, feeling a twinge of guilt. She probably could have told him– he was on her side, after all. But she shook the feeling away, focusing on the problem at hand. “How close are you?”

“Pretty close,” Aram said after only a few more taps on his keyboard, his gaze flicking up to meet Samar’s as a victorious smile crossed his lips. “In fact… I’m in.”

*          *          *

Of all the things Donald had pictured when he’d signed up for the FBI– well,  protecting a coffee mug from the machinations of a criminal mastermind so that his team could be spared from even worse machinations of said criminal mastermind had most certainly not made the list.

The situation was so far past ridiculous that they might as well have been preparing a luncheon for the Queen of England– which, to be honest, probably would have would have been preferable to the current situation.

To suffer the indignity of participating in what was essentially the world’s most contrived game of capture the flag was just—

 _Maddening_.

Well, he supposed that the alternative was far worse. To even consider dancing to Red’s tune put a foul taste in Donald’s mouth, and he knew that the only way he was going to stop it was if he played along with the game.

Perhaps not necessarily through playing it by the _book_ , however.

A slow smile stretched across his face as a plan began to form in his mind.

Reddington, after all, was something of a criminal genius and a master of evading the law. Donald himself had been a step behind the son of a bitch for five infuriating years, and he knew that if Reddington really put his mind to it, a simple locked door or even Cooper’s safe and constant vigilance wouldn’t be able to keep him at bay. But if Donald crafted an alternative, something that Reddington wouldn’t expect...

A game devised by a criminal logically _couldn’t_ have set rules, and besides– surely so long as Donald made it clear that he remained on Director Cooper’s ‘side’ of things, would the mug really be considered stolen?

Plan in mind, Donald merely had to wait for the minutes to tick over before he pushed through his own door and calmly proceeded across the War Room and up the stairs, heading for Cooper’s (hopefully fortified) office.

There was silence on the other side after Donald knocked on the door with a single, polite rap, and he waited as long as he thought denoted importance without being pushy before knocking again.

“That’s not going to work,” came the reply, and it was surprisingly muffled considering the strain Donald could hear in the tone.

“It’s Ressler,” Donald said, leaning toward the door curiously. “Are you all right, Sir?”

There wasn’t a verbal response, but there were enough scrapes and suspicious bangs that Donald found himself frowning in concern by the time Cooper opened his door.

He didn’t open it far, just enough so that Donald could see his wary gaze and the tight set of his lips.

“What is it?” Cooper asked cautiously. “Have you come up with a plan?”

“Yes, actually,” Donald said. He strained his neck to take a look into the room, but Cooper responded by closing the door slightly and narrowing his eyes further. Donald cleared his throat. “I was thinking,” he continued, “that Reddington knows exactly where the mug is at the moment. You did tell him. So, say if I took it and—”

“No,” Cooper said.

“—and I _hid_ it,” Ressler stressed. “Somewhere Reddington wouldn’t ever find it. He won’t expect you to have the mug removed from your office yourself, and he will certainly come here. It would be the perfect red herring—”

“Or the perfect double cross,” Cooper interrupted. “I don’t need you to hide the mug, Agent Ressler, I just need you stop Reddington from getting anywhere near this office in the first place. Do you think you can handle that?”

“Well, yes,” Donald said. “But—”

“Then good luck, Agent Ressler,” Cooper said firmly. “I do hope you succeed.”

Then the door closed shut with the finality of a clicking lock, and Donald was left to stare at it in shock. Did Cooper not trust his own agents?

Well, Donald could understand Cooper being wary of Keen, or perhaps even Navabi– both of which were likely to go off on their own just to prove a point. But to distrust _him_ without any evidence—

Well. He would just have to prove Cooper wrong.

First, though, he needed a new plan, so he retreated back downstairs to his own office. It was rather strategically placed, admittedly near Keen but with a line of sight to Cooper’s so that he was able to track movements in and out.

So Cooper wanted to keep the damn mug in his woefully unfortified office, then Donald would simply have to fortify the hallway. Perhaps he could lay some traps, or set up a tripwire—

Then – as if the universe had decided that everything that could _possibly_ go wrong was going to do so – the fire alarm began to blare and the sprinkler system released a torrent of freezing cold water, soaking Donald’s new suit and causing the computer on his desk to fizzle worryingly.

_Son of a bitch._

*          *          *

Aram’s grin was wide as he stared down at his laptop, not even caring that the photocopier was the _most_ uncomfortable seat ever as he watched Ressler complain about his now smoking laptop.

“That’s cheating, Aram!” Ressler snapped at the ceiling,knowing that Aram would probably be making use of the hidden security cameras. “If this were a real heist, you wouldn’t have been able to break into the system so easily!”

Ha ha, Aram thought bitterly, his grin giving way to a frown. That simply wasn’t true, and Ressler should know it. Sure, an unknown system would have taken longer to infiltrate than the security that he’d had a hand in designing, but fire alarms were about as simple as it could get. If Ressler thought otherwise, then Aram’s skills were truly not as appreciated as he had thought.

...Perhaps that was something he could rectify.

He felt an immediate stab of guilt as he undid his previously typed command that kept the elevator unlocked despite the fire alarm, but he did it anyway. If he continued on this path, he knew that Ressler and the others would attribute the win to Samar, and he would be given a pat on the back and a half-hearted ‘well done’ that always seemed to come after he’d helped catch a Blacklister from the safety of his keyboard.

Sure, he wasn’t out there in the field risking his life, and he held a deep respect for the others who _did_. But that didn’t mean that he felt like his own efforts weren’t thrown aside a little. He would never begrudge them his skills, of course, not out there when it could mean life or death– but here? When all that was on the line was pride and a coffee mug?

Now was his chance to prove himself without recourse, and he would be damned if he wasn’t going to take it.

“Aram,” Samar cautioned as if she knew exactly what was going through his mind, her voice coming in loud and clear over the comms they had collected before putting their plan into place. “Don’t you _dare—_ ”

“Sorry,” Aram muttered, cutting off the connection before he was forced to hear the inevitable slew of coarse complaints. He would be paying for that later, he knew, but he still did it. The night on the couch would be worth the looks on their faces when they realised that he was more than just a simple desk jockey.

As predicted – and as per FBI safety procedures that he was obligated to follow – Cooper stormed out of his office in an angry huff, muttering under his breath. The security cameras didn’t pick up the low sound, and Aram would’ve bet his bottom dollar that Cooper knew what was happening, but a game and a bet didn’t take precedence over a possible emergency. As director, Cooper had a responsibility to _all_ the workers in the Post Office– and that had been precisely what Samar was counting on when she had suggested this plan.

Aram waited until Cooper had disappeared down the stairwell before he closed his laptop with a grin, hopped down from the photocopier in the upstairs copy room, and headed straight out of the hallway.

Cooper’s door was open, left easily accessible with the furniture that had been previously piled against it strewn haphazardly in the office behind. Cooper had left in an angry rush, and Aram entered without a problem.

Before touching anything, Aram surveyed the room with a careful eye. It was possible, after all, that Cooper had taken the mug with him, but his and Samar’s plan had hinged on the fact that Cooper was planning to fortify that mug’s hiding place as best he could, and that he wouldn’t have time in the wake of a fire alarm to retrieve it. Aram’s gaze caught on the safe on the shelf behind the desk.

Well. That was a likely candidate for a hiding place if Aram had ever seen one. Still, he frowned, and poked at the safe. He didn’t know the number, but—

The drawer under Cooper’s desk caught his eye. It was simple, but it did have a lock. Perhaps too simple, but then– Cooper used his safe for real documents, and it was unlikely that he would tempt Reddington to break it when there could be classified information inside that the criminal really shouldn’t get his hands on. Even if that weren’t the case, the safe would make the ultimate red herring, and the mug would be far better off somewhere less obvious.

The lock was easy to pick, and Aram had the drawer open in moments.

Aram glanced down at the mug in surprise, turning it over in his hands. It was… pretty generic, to be honest, and not really something he would expect to be someone’s _favourite_. It was an ordinary cylindrical shape and made of the usual white ceramic, with the familiar blue FBI insignia stamped across the middle as its only embellishment.

Then again, Director Cooper was a serious man. Perhaps he didn’t mind what a mug looked like, only that it was clean. Aram could respect that. He’d been forced to use the break-room mugs a few times when he’d left his travel cup on the counter at home, and, well, that was a game of Russian Roulette if Aram had ever seen one. Sometimes, it was just safer to keep your own.

As he headed back out to the hallway, Aram was all too aware of the fact that the elevator had become silent, and that Ressler seemed to have vanished.

He needed to find a new hiding place for the mug, and _fast_.

*          *          *

Samar was _seething_.

It wasn’t like breaking out of a frozen elevator was hard, and it wasn’t like it was anything more than she’d had to do in the past. In fact, considering that the elevator was located inside a purportedly secure FBI Blacksite, the task was frighteningly easy.

But she shouldn’t have had to do it in the first place.

Of all the people on the team that she could have pegged as a traitor, Aram most definitely would have been _last_ on the list. But he had, so as she climbed up and out of the elevator shaft, she gritted her teeth and resigned herself to being a lone wolf in this venture.

That was _fine,_  though. She was more than capable of beating them all in this game.

She ran into Aram outside the armoury. He was just locking the door behind him, his posture relaxed and _relieved_.

He’d hidden the mug, then. Well, in that case, there was only one thing to do.

“So,” she said, possibly taking far too much amusement from the way that he jumped almost a foot in the air when she did so. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing,” Aram squeaked. “Erm– I’m, you know. Our plan was to—”

“Our plan was for you to set off the fire alarm while I hid the elevator, so that I would have a straight shot to Cooper’s office when he left via the stairwell,” Samar said, relishing in the opportunity to lace her tone with sarcasm. “Did you forget?”

“No,” Aram admitted. “But you have to admit, I totally caught you off guard—”

“Definitely,” Samar agreed, keeping her voice light. “I admit, I _was_ surprised when you betrayed me. Why’d you do it?”

“Betrayed?” Aram looked aghast, like he couldn’t possibly comprehend that he had done such a thing. “No, I just—”

“Left me _locked_ in the elevator,” Samar repeated dryly. “Oh yes, I see how I might have misconstrued _that_.”

“Sorry?” Aram offered, his eyes wide. “I didn’t— I mean—” He cut himself off as his gaze caught on the tablet he held in his hands. “Oh, crap,” he muttered.

Samar raised her brows curiously. “Oh?” she asked.

“Uhm—”

“Aram,” Samar warned.

“Sorry,” he said, tapping madly at the tablet he was purposefully angling away from her. “I have to go—”

“Aram!” Samar snapped again. “What—”

“Good luck with finding the mug!” Aram said cheerily as he dashed away, and Samar, rolling her eyes in fond exasperation, raced to follow.

*          *          *

It probably wasn’t the smartest course of action, nor was it the most thought out, but when the security feed on his phone had alerted him to the fact that Liz was in the server room—

Well.

At least by locking her in, it meant that she couldn’t take the mug anywhere else, right?

Of course, it also meant that no one could get in and take the mug from her, either, but– one problem at a time.

He was standing outside the server room door, trying not to laugh at the image on the screen of Liz trying to coax the bomb disposal robot under Aram’s control into giving her the mug in its grasp, when a second problem came hurtling down the hallway. Usually, Aram would be glad to hear Samar’s voice heading in his direction, but when it was accompanied by the irritated curl to her tone and the unmistakable rhythm of an angry approach, he was more likely to gulp in worried anticipation than swoon.

She had seemed especially annoyed with him by the armoury, which, okay, understandable– he _had_ locked her in the elevator, but she’d managed to get out all right, hadn’t she?

He had just been glad that their stilted excuse for a conversation had given the bomb-disposal robot enough time to get away with the mug, but then Liz had gone and followed it in the server room—

“The mug’s in there, isn’t it?” Samar asked as she approached, her eyes glistening with unconcealed amusement. “The server room? Really?”

The _could you be any more predictable?_ went unsaid, but the sense of it being there caused Aram to grit his teeth. Yeah, okay, so maybe it wasn’t the most subtle of hiding places but _he_ was the one who got the mug out of Cooper’s office. That was _him_. Samar couldn’t take that away from him.

“I’m not going to let you in,” he said, keeping his voice level. “No matter what you say—”

“If you don’t let me in, Liz keeps the mug,” Samar pointed out. And _how_ did she even know Liz was in there?

Deciding that the decoding of Samar’s super spy skills could wait for another day, Aram instead pointed out that– “Actually, I technically still have the mug. She hasn’t yet—”

He was interrupted by a triumphant yell, muffled by the locked door to the server room. Aram looked to his tablet to confirm what he already knew. The robot was backed into a corner, its claw hanging sadly while Liz danced away from it, mug in hand.

“I’m sorry,” Samar said smugly. “You were saying?”

“Look,” Aram said, letting his arms fall to his side as he met Samar’s gaze. “I’m sorry I locked you in the elevator, all right? I really, really, am, but see—”

“You know what they say about apologies that have a ‘but’ half way through,” Samar interrupted, though her expression had already begun to soften.

Aram huffed. “Okay. I _am_ sorry. I didn’t even care about this whole thing until you asked me to join in, but then Ressler made that comment about how useless I am—”

“That’s not quite what he said—”

“And you know it’s not true,” Aram continued, almost pleading for her understanding. “You know I’m not useless. I just needed to prove him wrong, to show him that I’m just as capable as you guys.” He paused, watching as Samar’s gaze settled into something like comprehension. “Surely I wasn’t wrong to take the opportunity to do that?”

She didn’t answer straight away, and Aram was worried for a moment that he had read her wrong, that she was still going to continue on her crusade. But after that moment she smiled, and Aram felt the tension in his body fall away.

“Truce, then?” Samar offered, but the glint her eye gave away her true intentions. Rather than worry him, however, the mischievous expression merely gave Aram further evidence that they were all right. They _did_ understand each other, after all.

So Aram shook his head and said– “No way. The door remains closed.”

Samar’s eyes flashed with amusement rather than annoyance this time, but before she could respond they were interrupted by

“It’s in there, is it?” Ressler asked. “Seriously, Aram? And I didn’t think you could _be_ more predictable.”

Aram exchanged a wry look with Samar.

“I know,” he said. “That’s me. So predictable that I only managed to steal the mug from under all of your noses, even if I cheated to do it—”

“That’s why you decided to go rogue?” Ressler asked in disbelief. “Because of what I said?”

“It was a little cold,” Samar commented.

“I didn’t _mean_ it,” Ressler said. “I was upset about the computer, okay? Aram. You should know your own value.”

“And what is my value?” Aram asked. “Sometimes, it’s hard to measure.”

“Oh, for—” Ressler ran a hand through his hair in frustration, turning to gather his thoughts before looking back to Aram. “Look. We should all be on the same side, here. We need to stop Reddington from getting the mug– that is _it_. I would like to point out that I haven’t seen Reddington since this whole thing started, so who knows what he’s up to? We should be focusing on working together, not fighting like petty high school kids!”

Samar was watching with narrowed eyes, but it was Aram who crossed his arms over his chest and said–

“If you think I’m just going to forgive and forget, you’re wrong. I’m not letting you through that door.”

“Aram, you’ve proven your point,” said Ressler. “Not that there was a point to be made– you do realise that we all see you as an important part of the team, right? We couldn’t have solved half our cases without you—”

“You do realise he’s only saying that to get on your good side, right?” Samar cut in.

“Do you not agree with me?” Ressler asked, his smirk giving away his attempt to walk Samar in circles.

“Please,” she snorted. “If I didn’t value Aram, I never would have picked him to be on my team.”

“And what a mistake that was,” Ressler replied. “There are no teams here—”

“Exactly!” Aram crowed. Then when the other two turned their gazes back to him, he offered them a small smile. He was saved by Liz, who seemed to have decided that being stuck on the other side of the door was not enough to keep her out of the conversation.

“There’s no need for the argument,” Liz said. “I’m quite happy in here by myself.”

“Yes, because if the clock hits six when you’re still in there, you win,” Samar said.

“No, _we_ win,” Ressler said, stressing the teamwork angle once again. “We’re on Cooper’s side. All we have to do is keep the mug away from Reddington—”

“I’m not _on_ Cooper’s side,” Samar countered. “I’m on my own side, and _I_ am going to win.”

“Who said anything about winning, anyway?” Aram said, not entirely proud of the whine that worked its way into his voice. “When did this even become a competition?”

“I’d say it was about when you locked me in the elevator,” Samar said wryly.

“I apologised for that—”

“Or when you broke my laptop,” Ressler pointed out.

Aram winced. “Yeah, sorry about that, I didn’t think. I did cut the sprinklers off in the War Room, Cooper’s office, the printer room, the—”

“Just stop,” Liz advised from the other side of the door. “You’re making it worse for yourself.”

Aram cast his gaze to the ceiling.

Ressler and Samar continued their bickering, each trying to pull Aram over to their side without actually including him in the conversation. And while he could see each of their points, he knew that no decision could make them both happy.

Really, there was only one way to solve this without—

Well, no. The bloodshed would be unavoidable, but at least this way, it would be directed away from Aram himself.

With only a few presses of a few buttons, the door to the server room unlocked with a tell-tale _beep._ Samar and Ressler paused mid-sentence, their eyes almost comically darting first to the door, and then to Aram.

Then, as if the move had been choreographed, they both charged.

Aram winced, feeling a twinge of regret.

_Sorry, Liz._

*          *          *

There was something very, _very_ wrong with the distribution of public funds in the United States.

If Raymond were being honest, it was _not_ something that he often found himself dwelling on. Usually, he found the injustices of the system useful hand-holds to exploit, either as justification not only for his own work but for those who worked for him, or as possible avenues for blackmail. He’d always managed to work the system to his advantage, and he’d never really considered how it might affect others.

After all, the system, at least from the outside, appeared to work. He’d seen worse in his time.

But for a FBI Blacksite – for the people who worked tirelessly to protect their country, risking their lives on hardly any sleep – to be forced to drink nothing but absolute swill that came out of a _tin—_

Honestly, Raymond thought, staring morosely down into his mug of black– _muck –_ it didn’t even deserve to call itself coffee. It tasted like dirt, it looked even worse, and after only a single sip he could already feel granules of the stuff on his tongue despite him having used water so warm he was almost at risk of burning it.

Perhaps burning it would have improved the taste. It certainly couldn’t have made it worse.

Surely the government swallowed enough tax money to be able to afford something that tasted less like something that had been scraped out of fifty year old bathtub, and more like it could actually be FDA approved.

Raymond was pulled from his musings as the door to the break-room swung open, Dembe stepping in with a furrowed brow.

“They’ve all gone mad,” Dembe said, shaking his head as if he were aching with surprised disappointment, but Red could see the wry amusement in his eyes.

Red didn’t respond, preferring to raise a wry eyebrow and take an instinctive sip of his coffee– an action that he immediately regretted. His mouth curled in distaste, hardly noticing as Dembe took a seat beside him.

“Aren’t you going to do something about it?” Dembe prompted as he leaned back in the uncomfortable plastic chair that was far too small for him, his tone laced with honest curiosity.

“Oh no,” said Raymond as he placed his unwanted mug to the side to prevent any further mistakes, chuckling in disbelief at his friend’s question. “I don’t think there’s any reason for such measures, do you?”

*          *          *

Samar _ran_.

She had the mug in hand, Ressler was on her tail, and she sprinted away from the server room like a bat out of hell. Liz was following too, but slower– she was no doubt a bit winded from the near dog-piling she had been subjected to when Aram had finally opened the door to the server room. Samar herself was a little sore, having received a (hopefully accidental) elbow to the gut during the scuffle. What she really needed was a place to lay low for a while, but with Ressler nipping at her heels there wasn’t anywhere she could duck into that he wouldn’t see—

Then, she rounded a corner and caught sight of a familiar sign.

 _Perfect_.

She shoved open the heavy door and dived into the room without ceremony, almost tripping over her own toes in her rush. She just made it in time, and a smirk curled at the corners of her mouth as she listened to the predicted response.

“Come _on_ , that’s not fair!’ Ressler complained, banging his fists on the door. “Foul play, Navabi!”

Her smirk growing, Samar straightened her back, glancing to the worriedly mouldy ceiling of the ladies’ bathroom.

“You can’t hide in there forever!” Ressler exclaimed, refusing to give up.

Well, Samar supposed, Ressler did have a point. But there had been more than one reason for her choosing to hide in this bathroom– and she grinned when she spotted it. She used a paper towel to wipe down the counter beside the sink of excess soap – no need to take unnecessary risks when there was _no_ chance of Ressler entering the bathroom, after all – and then, after tucking the mug carefully into a pocket of her jacket, climbed up and pushed at the vent.

She had Liz had noticed the vent some time ago, and had jokingly discussed its possible use in a lockdown situation. Never had she thought she’d actually _use_ it, but, well– circumstance calls.

Her muscles screamed as she pulled herself up without a boost, but it was a manoeuvre she had long since perfected and in moments she was crawling through the vent. It was musty and cramped and gross, but Ressler didn’t know about it, which made it a hallway at the Ritz for all Samar cared. She could half picture her victory already– the vent came out in the War Room, right by the elevator. She would be able to get away clean, straight to the carpark in the basement. There was no rule about staying in the building, and if she could get the mug to her car then she knew she was home free.

She was still smiling when she dropped back down to the ground, landing in a graceful crouch. But the smile didn’t last for long.

“Hi, Samar,” said Liz, hopping down from her perch on Aram’s desk and moving toward those bright yellow doors. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Samar sighed. She should have considered this– after all, she knew that Liz knew about the vent.

There was a bit of stand off between the two– the elevator was within reach, but in order to get to it, Samar would have to get closer to Liz. They eyed each other warily, squaring each other up—

Then the elevator doors slid open, revealing Cooper with a rather unimpressed frown etched across his face.

“Oh, hello Sir,” said Liz, recovering remarkably quickly to infuse her voice with careful geniality. “We were just saying how fortunate we were to have kept your mug from Reddington the whole time that you’ve been out—”

“You were just about to hand the mug over to me, you say?” Cooper interrupted, holding out a hand expectantly. Samar’s lips twisted in frustration, but she knew that she had little choice. Going against Cooper behind the scenes was one thing, but to be confronted in such a way…

With a sigh, she dipped a hand into her pocket, pulling out the white ceramic. But before she could even begin to hand it over to Cooper—

The elevator doors shuddered closed at a speed that could not _possibly_ be up to code and then Aram was darting in front of Samar, managing to snatch the mug from her hand in her moment of shock.

“Oh,” said Aram, looking down to the mug in his hands in absolute shock. “I didn’t think that was going to work.”

“Well, it did,” said Samar, stepping forward with lethal purpose. “Now, are you going to give it back, or…?”

Aram gulped, and then it was his turn to run.

*          *          *

 _Well done, Aram_ , Aram thought bitterly as he careened around a corner. _Another brilliant idea._

Honestly, it would him some good to think before he acted. Oh well, too late now.

He knew that Samar was on his tail, and he couldn’t exactly go back to the elevator– and great, now he would have _two_ people mad that he’d locked them in that thing. It was becoming his signature move. Not to mention the fact that the elevator had been his original plan, but with Cooper inside it that had gone out of the window. If he wanted to keep the mug, he knew he had to get _out_ of the Post Office, but the elevator had now been effectively emilinated as an escape route.

But if he could get to an emergency exit—

“Aram!” Liz shouted, appearing in front and cutting him off, and Aram was forced to change course.

He skidded around another corner and nearly ran slap bang into Ressler, who was knocking on the door of the ladies’ bathroom for some reason.

“Aram?” Ressler asked in shock, glancing down to the mug that Aram was clutching tight to his chest. “How on Earth did you—”

Aram squeaked and ran the other way, deciding that he might as well make another break for the elevator. Surely Cooper had managed to find his way out by _now._

But then Samar was there, cutting him off from the left, and Liz was on the right—

There was only one way for him to get away from them both.

 _Predictability be damned_. There was only about five minutes left on the clock. If Aram could get himself behind a locked door, then he was going to do it.

He ran straight forward, managing to avoid Liz and Samar and running as fast as his legs could carry him back to the server room. The door was still open from the earlier scuffle and he ducked inside without thought, slamming it shut behind him. He fumbled a little with his tablet in his nervousness, but he still managed to get the door locked before Liz and Samar began to knock on the other side, and he sagged with relief.

As with most lucky breaks in Aram’s life, however, it was not to last.

“The server room?” Ressler asked, as he pushed away from the wall, the corners of his lips pulling up into a self-satisfied smile that just rubbed Aram the wrong way. “ _Really?”_

And Aram, absolutely exhausted from his mad dash and too busy wanting the whole thing to be _over_ to wonder how Ressler had managed to get there first, merely sighed in acceptance of his defeat.

*          *          *

Donald wasn’t crowing when he entered the War Room at 6:01pm with Aram in tow, because that would be tacky, but he’d be lying if he didn’t admit that his smile was rather wide. He’d won, and everyone _knew_ it.

Keen was shooting him dirty looks and Navabi looked honestly frustrated that he had managed to win.

He wasn’t going to brag to their faces, but this was definitely something he knew he’d be able to hold over them for a while.

Cooper was there as well, though he too, had a hardness to his expression that proved this evening had not gone half so well as he had hoped.

“All right,” Keen sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Uh, not to be a downer, but Isn’t anyone else worried about the fact that Mr Reddington appears to be missing?” asked Aram.

“Good point,” said Cooper. “Where is he?”

“I’m right here,” said Reddington, stepping out from the break room with a flourish and a wide smile.

“Have you been in there this whole time?” Keen asked in disbelief.

“Yes,” Reddington said firmly. “And it has been one of the most miserable experiences of my life. Do you really have to put up with that swill?”

Donald looked to Keen for explanation, but she looked almost as lost as he felt.

“Do you mean the coffee?” Aram asked cautiously.

“It can hardly be called _coffee_ ,” Reddington scoffed. “Please. It is dirt with a slight hint of caffeine at _best_. At worst, it’s just dirt. And poor quality dirt at that. My, I was even treated to greater quality when I was held captive for three weeks in the camper van of a _fascinating—”_

“If you want something better,” Liz interjected dryly, “then you’re just going to have to bring your own and stash it in a desk like the rest of us.”

Reddington’s eyes lit up a the prospect, and the sight sent a Pavlovian response of fear curling in the pit of Donald’s gut. There was an ulterior motive here, he was sure of it, though he couldn’t quite discern whether it was born of a desire to plan another heist-type-scuffle or to stock the break room with good coffee. And that, too, would no doubt result in disaster, for if the breakroom were to be stocked with actual _coffee_ Donald was sure they would all turn into caffeinated zombies within days. He was self aware enough to recognise that the only thing standing between himself and a caffeine addiction was the price of the stuff in the nearest cafe. Not to mention the fact that Reddington would no doubt curse them with some horribly complicated device so that he could watch them struggle to obtain their morning beverage with that twisted sense of humour he possessed—

“Why don’t we all go somewhere more comfortable?” Reddington suggested after the pause grew longer, gesturing for them to follow him into the break room. It set Donald’s teeth on edge to be following him again, but when everyone else began to move he knew that he had little choice.

Besides, he had _won_. Reddington could lord it over them as much as he wanted, but he wasn’t going to get to go after the dangerous Blacklister like he wanted. Donald had managed to stop him.

As they entered, Donald noticed that Dembe was leaning against one of the counters, and it was only then that Donald realised he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Dembe since the whole thing had started. That was… worrying, but not as much as it would have been before learning that Reddington had sequestered himself away the whole time. That, _that_ made Donald annoyed to no end. Reddington had started this whole mess, and for what? He hadn’t even been bothered to try?

Donald narrowed his eyes. There was some ulterior motive in this, clearly. Either Reddington was about to drop a major game changer, or he had made up the whole bet to mess with them. Or he was using it as a distraction while he worked on something else entirely.

None of those options were below Raymond Reddington.

“All right, let’s get this done so we can all go home,” said Cooper as they all settled in. “Who has my mug?”

“I’ve got it,” said Donald, raising his hand smugly. His fingers were looped in the mug’s handle, and it dangled from his hand with the blue FBI logo on clear display.

Cooper frowned.

Thanks to that frown, Donald almost heard the words before they were spoken, his stomach twisting as his mind caught up with the truth.

“That’s not my mug,” said Cooper.

For a single beat, the room was silent. Then a laugh burst from Keen’s lips, and although she covered her mouth to hide it, the damage was done. Aram’s eyes were wide as he glanced between the mug and Cooper’s annoyed expression, and Samar looked to be _trying_ to keep a straight face, though Donald couldn’t discern what was hiding below the mask.

“It’s not?” Donald asked, the last of his hope draining away. But maybe, maybe one of the others had it, maybe they could still get away with a win—

“Why would such a generic mug be my favourite?” Cooper asked, frustrated. “Stop playing around. Now, whoever has my real mug– the white one, with pink on it—”

“Do you mean this one?” Dembe asked.

Donald turned to face the tall man in disbelief, sure that he was _not_ about to be met with the sight of defeat.

But there Dembe was, leaning against the counter with an expression of pure, innocent curiosity etched across his face, his arms extended and fingers cupped around a mug that he had clearly just pulled from one of the break-room cupboards. It was white and cylindrical, exactly the same shape as the mug in Donald’s hands, but instead of the familiar blue FBI logo it was adorned with the words “World’s #1 Dad” drawn on in a child’s messy hand with pink paint, surrounded by purple markings that might have been stars.

There was only one possible explanation.

“You switched it?” Donald asked, aghast, the mug in his own hand carelessly discarded on the counter. “ _When?”_

Dembe merely smiled.

“Well, congratulations,” said Aram, offering his hand. “I guess you won.”

Dembe shook Aram’s hand gratefully.

“I suppose this means that I get my heist,” said Reddington, glancing to Cooper with a smile. “We start tomorrow, I presume?”

“You’re putting my team in danger,” Cooper said grimly, his lips pressed into a tight line.

“Oh, no, I don’t think that I am,” Reddington replied with a cheerful smirk. “After all– just look at how close they all came to stealing your mug from you all by themselves, and imagine how beautiful it will be when they work together as a team.”

“Was this your plan along?” Samar asked curiously. “When you asked me to join you–”

“He asked you to join him?” Aram asked, half insulted.

“You each only needed a little push to prove yourselves,” Reddington said with a shrug. “And you all have. I’m sure you’ll perform far past all of our expectations when we arrest the next Blacklister.”

Donald looked to the ceiling in utter exasperation.

Well. After all that, it still looked like they’d be dancing to Reddington’s tune– but they would just have to make sure that they did it on their own terms.

They did make one hell of a team when they worked together, after all.


End file.
